Expired words
from time to time
still find a way inside

Hyperbole
you said to me
reprise irrespectively

of the fact they died
and should have been forgotten
but some of rot
and some of them blossom.

I can read you like a book,
A deep gaze in to your pretty brown eyes is all it took.
They're the windows to the soul after all
And yours left mine enthralled
That Much beauty in such little space?
You move irrespectively through the world at your own pace.
I'm sure you've heard it before but,
your smile brightens a room
You look my way again, I try not to loom.
If I could I would but I don't think I should.
Confess,
What would I have if I lost my dream?
What if my idea of you is all a want...
Yes that's it I don't love you.
Just the idea of you,
I'm content with that ...

Ha such a fallacy.

well: who would have thought that the Chemical
Brothers
       have upped their game when it comes
to creating new music...
  
              some artists just become lost if you're
exploring alternative music...
the moment the algorithm puked up a song suggestion
from NO GEOGRAPHY: got to keep on...
i knew i was in for a treat: from the whole album...

what initially drew me to go to that Walter Sickert
exhibition rather than going to an opera?
the madness of crowds for once...
i've heard too much singing: terrible singing
football stadium singing
   to want to torture myself with opera...
although i love opera...
   but... enough of one of the senses being
exploited...
      
   i've recently found this acronym for a personality
type: the Advocate...
when i was young: an Advocaat was a boy's
every Christmas dream...
        i like staring at faces... and at a football stadium
fulfilling the role of minding crowd safety:
no one can tell you to not look at them...
but these faces move...

       most of the time i'm more interested in
the crowd than in the football match...
          but like me in the London tube...
i just stare at people staring up at pointless
adverts...
i sometimes do to... my favourite tube map
is that of the District Line...
    i've love to get a poster of it...
     i live about a 20 minute's cycle ride from Hornchurch
station...
then again: i always overused the Central Line:
what... with living in Gants Hill all those years...

but i rarely go by a Critic's Choice in either the Saturday
or the Sunday edition of the newspaper:
but i have to say... waldemar januszczak
                                    янущaк (there? less consonants
for you; better?!)
                                   sometimes gets it right...
he most certainly got it right with Walter Sickert...
i was looking for something alternative to Munch...

i was looking for someone who "predated":
was the precursor of Francis Bacon...
    because i could never get into Lucian Freud
because my alternative to Lucian was always going
to be Edward Hopper...

hmm... now that i think of it: poetry of opinions...
why poetry of opinions?
         philosophy attempted dialectics...
                once upon a time...
  but these days opinions are easily spewed without
being undermined: discussed...
the firm foundations of the two camps policy of
"argument": neither side allowing either
to mould each other...
the discussion is entered and left without
anything being achieved on a Socratic level of:
persuasion... or a change of mind...

hence? my poetry of opinions...
            we've got to try... that's a banger of a track...

no... i couldn't expose my ears to my sound...
i needed something visual...
the clarity of silence of an art exhibition:
an art exhibition that you have to pay extra for...
i tried to watch the people in the exhibition,
two girls tried to get my attention...
but the minute i walked in and saw the earliest
out by Sickert i knew i was in for a treat...
the self-portraits threw me into a kaleidoscope
of: this... this reminds me of someone...

Francis Bacon! i love how art just passed down
a certain signature... a technique from
one individual to another...
because it's not like an art school technique:
the school of Florence etc.:
with those pristine paintings...
   the schools disintegrated... individuals emerged...
those pristine paintings were bound to
disappear with the emergence of photography...

they had to... no wonder painters had to make
things a litter bit more "mysterious": blurry:
almost childish like Picasso or van Gogh...
well: elevated childish...
               but none the less:
   nothing like the "photograph" quality of
Renaissance paintings...
the photograph killed off that sort of painting...
why, would anyone bother
to paint like that if you can take a photograph:
it obviously doesn't carry the same
aesthetic "quality": concern...

                     but... let's face it...
distortion worked much better than any sense
of pristine Apollonian architecture of the jawline
or hands: oculus per oculus: eye for an eye:
but more: like for like...
painting is not architecture...
   it's not engineering...

     sure... there might be some basic schematic
involve: Sickert exposed the use of a square
grid from time to time in his paintings...
Francis Bacon most certainly used geometry of some
sort to find his bearings where
otherwise would gush blood / paint / *****...
but it's not cubism... and it's not certainly
anything akin to *******...

but i needed those 40 minutes' worth of walking
around: with a grin on my face...
if i went to an opera i'd probably cry...
i felt like grinning... i wanted my eyes to eat
something... with each blink i was trying to...

obviously i bought a memorandum of the exhibition:
it cost more than the actual ticket
but... as i've found... certain works of art
look: feel... completely different in real life
than if they are replicated and copied into a book...
you can't simply scan an oil painting and get
the same results of impression the painting has...
there's always that 3D aspect of looking
at the same painting from different angles...

i have to say... whoever curated the exhibition
managed to get the lighting wrong...
light from above doesn't always work...
i had to appreciate some of the works looking at then
sideways... i was looking at the lighting...
then at the painting... then at the lighting...
then at the painting... i was almost slow dancing
around them: my feet were performing some
weird version of Tai Chi...

      one of the Camden Town ****** works initially
prompted me: as seen in the critic's choice
article...
i knew something was up... there was that initial
resemblance of giving birth to Francis Bacon...

oh hell no... i wasn't there to pick up a girl...
i was literally: authentically there for the art...
but i'm pretty sure most of the people in that exhibition
weren't there for the art...
body language: if they can't entertain solipsism
for at least 20 minutes... the art works become less
interesting... they're looking around like they're
lost the plot or regret paying the money...
you know the art is not really important...

add a grin to that... freak...

          ah... welcome thoughts...
                 those ought i's and i wills...
                      finally... some peace...
that last shift at the FA cup final among the Liverpool
fans... great people! all northerners are
great people... the southerners have a massive
stick of authority shove up their *****...
    esp. in London: this... celebrated no geography
crowd...

      but i seriously thought i was standing next
to the Big Ben gongs come noon...
my ears felt fuzzy...
      they were the consistency of vibrating static...
a bit like drilling into a concrete slab
with a pneumatic drill...
      peace... just some peace... some paintings...
once upon a time i had ambitions to become
a painter...
       writing's cheaper...
    and... well: it freer to the imagination:
it's more... mandible... jaw-like...
          it makes conversations with random strangers
more entertaining...
you need to have a specific focus to paint
what you already see...
   when i write: i haven't said anything:
most of the time i write without even having
a premeditative thought: well...
there might be something initial...
but the narrative flow-through is hardly
premeditated...
i like to be surprised...
                hell: i'm always surprised!

- but like i was saying to "someone" today...
"someone": maybe that's why mothers and sons
and sons and father and whoever is blood-related
don't get along so well, is because,
nothing ******-related friction...
nothing weird... because because just become
comfortable, boring enough to have to start
breeding a new generation...

i've found that i've become more and more
inquisitive... and if any signs of dementia kick
in... i'll be? in Amsterdam... ingesting
some magic mushrooms...
right now alcohol is hardly debilitating...
or subduing / pacifying me...
it's actually invigorating me...
it's a tonic!

          so i was saying: and i too would love to
watch more foreign language movies:
with subtitles... but for some strange: ******* reason...
this "genius" entertained the idea
that subtitles ought to be placed at the BOTTOM
of the screen!
  not even the Mandarin write from bottom
up!
   they write from up to bottom!

  the vertical line is drawn from the top down...
rather than from the bottom: up...
this "genius" must have been left-handed...
you get such a better focus on what's happening:
if you just moved the subtitles to the top of
the screen: because it's easier to look down
than to look up after reading a text of translation!

it's this little incy-wincy detail that keeps bothering
me...
      there ought to be a revision:
subtitles ought to be replaced with supra-titles...
at the moment we're watching foreign movies
in the format of chemistry, e.g.
        H₂O...

but we should be watching said movies
in the format of mathematics... e.g.
    Pythagorean... c² = a² + b²

let's call ₂ & ² script: irrespectively...
                   and the "algebra" the images before our
eyes... what would be easier?
looking up then looking down...
or... looking down and then... looking up?!

even the Mandarin barons didn't write from
bottom to top...

slow internet connection stresses me out...
well... £20 for 40 minutes' worth of an art exhibition
or... £120... for 1h (wow! the indefinite
article simply disappears... when you write
it like  that)
                     with a *******...

                             that really does depend...
what horse the modern woman is riding on...
i'm going to ride my horse to death
to eat itself...

that's why nudes of artists sort of bore me...
once you'vre ****** in front of a mirror...
nudes... artistic impressions...
bore me...
            i want to paint the mirror that
like the walls: seen more... heard more
than the average culmination of antics
might appease...

                        i want to paint clouds...
i want to paint cauliflowers as clouds...
and clouds as cauliflowers...
  i want to paint mirrors...
i want to paint glass...
                  and i also want to paint
the contortions of ***...
                  i want to paint trains:
i don't want to wait for them...
            i want to paint rain: i don't won't to
adorn an anorak...
                  i want to paint the sewage works...
but i don't want to paint
taking a ****...

   sober up come 10:30am?
              well... i won't be goose-marching...
that's for sure...
      i'll put on my Thespian mask
and just pretend that i haven't drunk 70cl of
whiskey the night before...
i'll sit in the sunshine and bake... sour...
cabbage-head-reach for sanity...
pretend to: juggle earth, the sun and moon.

a top hat in an empty freezer.

thumb size magnets of vintage Xmas

lights, shifting around like a ouija board.

one dimensional warp sleights of color,

motioning.

placing blind eyes to motion without

color, lit irrespectively by contrast--

or current.

battering ram frost, whose heavy

breathing leaves the freezer door open.

i'm having inconsistencies creep up on me /
that i am in part /
so many things at once /
returning to paths /
formerly trodden /
now etchings /
          now sketches /
and all this to simply say /
cruelty is not born out of love /
but cruelty is the daughter of genius /
clearly portrayed in Schindler's List /
\ i can see it now
\ as clear as day within a day
\ as i see day in night
\ when the eyes capture light
\ the currency of eyes
\ that is like blood to the heart
\ and electricity to the brain
\ and to the soul what thought is
\ but ego isn't
\ since soul is without ego
\ should ever soul be doubted
/ then the ego cannot be doubted
/ yet why settle for such a fickle thing
/ as ego
/ when you can comprehend organizing it
yet that's right /
the ego /
construct it into a soul /
at least organize it with thought /
with intellect /
garner it /
in the garden: of all places /
to the youth of ****** of looks /
but the acuteness to read Candide /
and that's almost a tearjerker /
i can feel her now in my stomach:

but how long would i have settled
to say to a woman
as woo not woe to man and of man
irrespectively respectively...
that's the antonym of respectively, no?
IR
            regardless...
but if constantly reminded:
this is not your daughter:
i cannot have a child with you:
why are you a man if you don't want children:
?
?
   ?
   ?

        ? ?    invalid? ***** count low?
question Q question Q question Q
so my biological "reality" answer is thus
and now i'm not drunk
no i wasn't drunk (but i was, on thought,
and the cameo cinema of yesterday
not the cinema of grandfather Joseph:
i am matthew: the dream of joseph...

in my dream i woke to grinding metal
the sweet sonic zing zing
of a graphite shield cutting metal
iron by the looks of it due
to the amount of rust
so the cutting... grinding was made easier
now only 20min passed
and no i wasn't high
like now in the microverse
to counter the many uses of other verses
i will not succumb to the sobering
advantage of game with
foreign alphabets
i am not storing thoughts but emotions
perhaps that's why
there is no pleasure in ***
beside the utility of threading the existential
furthering
by count a child of each belonging
so that i answer Spielberg became a Bergman
with Schindler's List and i was
trying to communicate with script
shouldn't have but wanted to talk
and couldn't
and am i to think of superior intellectual
stock: of course not... corpus christi jeez and
jazz no...
but if all that remains of me is the equivalent
of the Kul Tigin...
then that's what continued from Cuneiform
and stone and who's to say
the bible is worth more
if the Bible was written on paper
then burnt
because it was a plagiarism
and a double burden on the Hebrews
to have carried paper into the woods
yes they carried paper into the woods
of Europe: deforested it
made it a feeding basin plateau
like a Mongolian semi Tundra
and that didn't take effort
to uproot all those trees?!

       cutting /
// cutting /
  cut / cut / cut /
// / /// / // / / /

now this was metal on metal
grinding
with graphite
the sonic whoosh and smooch of kissing
like metal or diamond
rock on metal

the supposed holy covenant
but how can nomads
have stone
or write on stone
perhaps graffiti on stone would be best
scratched
not like that idiot spray painting
on a wall in Pompeii
but why didn't the Hebrews
graffiti the Wall of Mourning
surely some rascal could have in the times
of the Romans
written his Martin Luther
on the stone...
but Jesus didn't...
no Hebrew even began to comprehend
the power of NOINK
or no-ink... however you want to spell it...
could have...
chiseled in hebrew letters:

הרחובות שלך

    (your streets)

השכירות שלנו

    (our tenements)

throughout the film you can hear
a murmur of spoken Polish
but then that ghastly scene!
that ghastly scene!
that Jewish itch in spite of what "we"
did that Jewish yuck and itch
with that scene
from Jews leaving Krakow -
the middle class Jews
the well attired Jews
with a little girl from the countryside
somehow managing to scream:
in English:

   GOODBYE JEWS!
GOODBYE JEWS!

now... personally? i take offence at that...
truly...
that is such a misrepresentation of
the whole Polish Jewish dynamic...
that has, seriously: tinted me...
sobered me up...

fair enough if the girl was screaming!
if she was screaming!
DOWIDZENIA ŻYDZI!
DOWIDZENIA ŻYDZI!
but no... no...
and i'm supposed to live in America
even if it's Hawaii
or better still Kauai?
no... nein nein nein nein nein nein
i've just heard of a European
revival of the Right and *****
of each Land
and people his own...

i holstered that Advent on the 7th October
of last year
the year 2023 when i returned
from Kauai...
this time round i just blocked her on WhatsApp
deleted her number
but kept her PO BOX
and her email
and that's the best i can do...
no more conversations
no more oochie koochie
over the phone no *******
no
no it was
just doing my head in this DISTANT CLOSE?NESS
clown lover
nothing more
clown lover...

             i still have the house to clean
and that's going to be done
since i already pumped up my missing front
wheel and i haven't been cycling for
well over 2 months
maybe more
probably since the end of Yeti and Mammoth...
3 months... March, end of,
so beginning of April: maybe... so so...

another coffee and finish off the cigarette?
yes, conversations with i
at least that's honest
and i can bring only love and honesty
from the bottom of my heart
since my mind will only invent
cruelty out of genius
that genius that's revealed in this unscripted
wriggling of the worm
if i had a pen:

Kwisatz Haderach in Marrakesh...
just sounds nice
almost pretty...

but that is the water of life
in my dream
in my dream i was peeling wallpaper
and i was almost scolded for
not having dampened the walls enough
a second third time
so that the peeling process would be easier
as the water could be drank up by the paper
and dilute the glue...

"My only INTEREST with MUSIC is LOVE, because here in it I find LOVE ever BEST and BLESSED."

EVERYONE LOVES HERE.
MEANING is as COMMON
As WE are to us All.
But that SENSE of LOVE,
Is  as  VARY  as
We  Ourselves All.
We  All  LOVE. IRRESPECTIVELY.
Through  Our  most
RESPECTIVE  HEART ways.
A  perfectly  TERRESTRIAL BEAUTIFUL.
But Only  EARTH
Is surely Not ENOUGH,
For such SOULS
Ever ASPIRE to Fly ABOVE .
We Fall for MUSIC.
However INDIVIDUAL
Our LOVE be,
However INDIVIDUALLY
We FEEL for a SONG be,
We Do or Not
We DESIRE.
MUSIC;
One to PROVIDE us One
And Uniquely SECURED SHELTER.
One to Make us All
Together UNIFIED in it
As one COMPLETE WHOLE.
While PASSION for LOVE
Is One's INBORN,
MUSIC;
PERPETUATES and PROTECTS
It's Every EMOTIONS.
With One VOICE of Millions HEART
It Takes us off
To EXPERIENCE some of  Uniternal VAST.
It's HERE-
I Believe INDEED.
The QUEST;
Of Our DISTURBED LOVE
Ever RECLAIMS it's REST.

That's why-
Listening to those STIRRING SONGS
The GREATEST QUINTESSENTIAL
Of HEART Works,
So EVOCATIVE of Dreamy DESIRES,
We Scarely Help TEARS.
It HITS DIFFERENT.
Like the Craziest RIVER
At once POUNCES upon
Over the crusty EARTH,
Sooner GOES away
Leaving an AEON'S DARTH.
While HEART wrenches
With Seemingly UNAFFORDABLE
Pang and PLEASURE,
It's HERE-
It REMINDS us.
It REMINDS us of our
Helpless TANGLED pace;
Which we are FORCED
To STRUGGLE on and on EVER,
As they keep GETTING on
And on over us
When We begin to GROW
More and More into HUMAN.
It's HERE
I Feel INDEED.
Ours ain't a COMFORTABLE PIECE
For LOVE to EVER Frisk
It's in MUSIC
LOVE ever RESTS in PEACE.

                        THANK YOU.